


Alive

by vanishing_time



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s08e22 Everybody Dies, First Time, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Romance, solace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_time/pseuds/vanishing_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Maybe he already was dead. Maybe hell was cold and wet and built of gray concrete instead of being fiery and burning.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In the few days after the 'Reichenbach Fall', Wilson is trying to deal with the loss of House and then with his return, as well as his own impending death and fear. Set during Everybody Dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something intense because I really missed some kind of emotional catharsis from the end of the show, even though the way it was written was beautiful and almost perfect. It just needed a few extra scenes...

He began to cry only on the third day.

Until that everything was dull, muted and surreal. He kept telling himself that he was just hallucinating, that he was having another chemo treatment he’d forgotten about, and these were just the side effects. That if he survived and got better, things would go back to normal.

Well, as normal as they could be.

He volunteered to arrange everything, partly because deep down he knew the truth and kept hoping the planning could help him step back into the reality, partly because he didn't want to assign the burden to anyone else. It felt personal and somehow axiomatic, and everyone agreed with that without saying a word. He was willing to do anything that could keep his thoughts on a rational level; but it was no use, and getting drowned in false persuasion became more and more comfortable. When he ordered the flowers, chose the photo (he caught himself gazing at the selected one for over an hour) or dialed yet another number on his cell phone, then he could almost convince himself that this was, if not a hallucination, then a dream.

He didn’t break down when Blythe throw herself in his arms, and though he felt like throwing up, he kept his voice calm and soothing as ever, like he’d published the news to a family member of yet another patient. He murmured comfortingly when she cried on his shoulders, kept stroking her back, eyes staring blankly into the air, thinking this was not fair, parents should never be forced to bury their children. At moments like this he could almost forget about his illness, though that was far from relief.

When Foreman offered to have a drink with him, he politely sent him away; so did he with Thirteen, her glistening, red eyes were something he couldn’t bear to see. He said no to Chase and Park, he rejected Cameron's call. And all the while through his exhausted perspective he kept imagining he was only dreaming.

Finally he dialed Cuddy’s number, watched the blinking of the screen, then aborted the call before she could pick it up. She hasn't called him back since then.

And then there was nothing else to be done but to merely cling to his memories, the red wine falling to dust on his tongue, though pondering of the good times made him feel more awful than the reminiscence of his faults or _his_ faults. He kept asking himself what he should have done differently. He kept playing scenarios over and over in his head, while he clearly knew what he did wrong and what he did right, and he was aware it was pointless and there was nothing that could be changed now.

Had he been selfish?

Was he supposed to be a better friend?

And if he’d been a friend good enough, what more should he have done?

Was he supposed to be more than just a good friend? More than a best friend?

The hatred he felt for him was so burning and so intense he trembled in his bed when he stirred from his indistinct, dusky dreams, in the same clothes he was wearing that day, not bothering to change. Flashes of flames, collapsing bricks, muted screaming, suffocating, a body smoldered to soot in his mind... He stuck his eyes into the darkness, watched the dance of the shadows on the wall, cold sweat, or maybe tears trickling down his temple, listening to his heartbeat. He despised and missed him so much, he moaned and dug his fingers into his face, wanting to peel off the skin, tear the flesh to shreds, claw his own eyes out, do anything that would distract him from the suffering. His chest hurt, his life hurt, everything hurt, and he was painfully aware of the short time he had left, and he knew that he had to step out of the agony somehow, had to move on, but was incapable, and he thought this hell will last for eternity.

Maybe it was time to give up.

He imagined the cold kiss of a blade, springing a red river of warmth on his skin. He imagined seductive depth and the ecstasy of freefall before the ground embraced him in a gray, cracking fog of oblivion. He thought about lying still with a syringe between his numbing fingers until he could no longer move, no longer force his lungs to breathe in the air, no longer will his heart to beat. He thought about riding the highway, wind caressing his hair, adrenalin getting him high one last time before he pulled aside the steering wheel, and metal rods pierced his body and small grains of concrete were kissing him goodbye.

He kept picturing his own grave. He was thinking about death. He was dreaming of death, and these dreams were nothing like the ones he had after the CT scan, for he had him by his side back then. In these dreams, he was dying alone.

And when finally he couldn’t fool himself anymore, he began to pray for one more miracle to a god, any god he could name and who would listen to him. _  
_

He'd happily have chemos all of his life if it meant he could be with him again.

He wanted to turn back time. He wanted to undo all the things he'd done wrong. He wanted to tell him what he felt, he wanted to get back all the goddamn time that he had wasted.

The time he'd spent not loving him.

He buried his face in his palms and laughed like a madman when the realization hit him.

And when the storm came later that night, like his life were a fucking ironic, symbolic movie, he seized that symbolism and staggered out to the street barefeet, and as the lightnings were striking around him he roared into the night and the thunderclaps roared together with him, he called out his name over and over again, howling like a dog separated from its owner of a lifetime, his fingernails bit into his thighs and his body curled on itself as he kept yelling _you goddamn fucker_ and _I hate you_ and _please come back_ and _how could you leave,_ repeating the words until he was choking on his own sobs, and the ice cold hail watered down his tears and stuck his shirt to his skin, and all he could do was whisper _I don't want to die alone._

Maybe he already was dead. Maybe hell was cold and wet and built of gray concrete instead of being fiery and burning. Maybe hell was being without him while sickness was slowly enmeshing his insides, knotting a net around his heart and penetrating his lungs, and his throat was being wrenched apart with screaming.

He was painfully aware that miracles don’t happen. Yet he kept hoping hopelessly.

Then finally the morning came, and he carefully binded his striped blue tie, looking at himself in the mirror like he were looking at an alien being, stoically noticing the newly carved lines of agony on his face, briefly tracing his stubble with his palm, and when he put on his dark jacket, he slipped a tube of capsules into the pocket and smoothed it down from the outside.

He was ready to say his goodbye.

 

  

But now he’s here.

Seems like miracles do happen, after all.

He feels his lips curve into a smile, but then why doesn't he feel cathartic?

Whom he wished for is in front of him. Everything he begged for.

But he begged for awakening too many times, and too many times he was denied. Why should he believe that this is real? He feels like he can’t tell the difference anymore between nightmares and realities.

The voice sounds real and familiar, though. "Shouldn’t we get in? Or we wanna keep wasting time? That mountain's not gonna climb itself."

"You packed anything yet?"

"Nothing. I didn't want them to investigate, but I need to get a few things so we can leave. Let’s get in for your stuff and then go to my place."

Silence.

"You do want to leave, don't you?"

Silence.

"Wilson?"

Wilson stares at House's questioning glare as they are now standing in his kitchen (it used to be theirs, he thinks gratuitously), blinds rolled down, gray rays of light flickering around.

"What’s wrong? I don’t get it, you were laughing a minute ago. Don’t you want me to go with you? Did you change your mind?"

"No, of course I didn’t," Wilson smiles at him hesitantly, cautiously. "It's just…" He shakes his head, hands on his hips and his nape as usual when he's confused. "You died. I cremated your body, I arranged your funeral. I talked to your mom, comforted her..."

House steps closer to him, not taking his eyes off him for a second as he continues.

"I had nightmares... then I gave up sleeping. It was all so unbelievable," Wilson says, voice shaking as he looks up. "And now... how can I know that I'm not just having a... ketamine dream?"

House stands in front of him, putting his hand on his arm, and Wilson looks down at it like it was something he’s never seen.

"I’m here," House says, "I'm real. I swear I'm real. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I had to arrange everything."

Wilson’s eyes are glistening a little as he's placing his hands on House’s shoulders, gripping him tight enough through his jacket to hurt.

"I'm here. I'm real," House keeps repeating reassuringly, with decades of sadness in his eyes, and Wilson feels his heart breaking a little at his expression, realizing how unbearable these days were for both of them, and now that he's here, he can't understand how he was supposed to go on without him.

"There’s no way for you to go back."

"You already said that. And I don’t _care._ And if you really want me on your journey, I'll go with you."

"Why? Why do you do this? I’ll be dead soon anyway. It’s not… worth it."

House lets out an unbelieving chuckle. "The hell, Wilson? Do you really want me to answer that?"

 _Yes, we’ve been tiptoeing around it for twenty fucking years, why the fuck do you find it so difficult to say it out loud now?_ He imagines himself shouting this, imagines panting and fevered gazes.

"I need to hear it from you." But all he manages is just a whisper.

House then doesn't say a word, just stares at him for a long time, but at last he lets his hand trace along Wilson’s arm, agonizingly slowly, and he’s bending and he’s on his knees now, looking up at him like he just cut out his own heart to hand it over on a silver platter. He clutches Wilson's hips and presses his chin to his abdomen, trembling and surrendering, and Wilson screws his eyes shut and wants to cry.

How can he be so beautiful on the inside?

He gets his answer, but the words are not quite what he expected.

It’s not _I love you._

_How can something be so simple and so difficult?_

_How can you compress your whole world into one sentence?_

"Because... you’re my everything."

It’s so strikingly simple.

And Wilson is also on his knees now, snapping out of his dark trance that was possessing him since he saw the body brought out of the building. He's stroking House’s shoulders, his arms, his neck, sees his eyes flutter at the caress on his face, and then House's arms are so tight around his body his breath is pressed out of his lungs, and Wilson is clutching at him, breathing hotly in his neck, and he's a little stunned because they've never hugged like this before, but it feels natural and obvious, like he'd always belonged here, in House’s arms, and House in his.

The surreal astonish seems to fade, but Wilson doesn't let go, and House is fondling his back soothingly, and Wilson irrationally thinks that if he had one, he would probably do the same with his child who had a nightmare. But it's too late to think about that now.

It’s much later than they ever thought.

Finally he’s back in reality, and he is now able to accept that this is all real, he is able to accept House’s offering of deathless death. And there is one thing that he can give him in return. Those blue eyes are promising him everything, as they always did, and he won’t resist anymore; he holds his breath and slowly leans ahead until he feels soft pressing of dry lips on his mouth, rough stubble scratching his own; and House lets out a strangled sound deep from his throat, a mix of a whimper and a low groan, like he's been waiting for this in his whole life, and he grabs Wilson's face as he returns his kiss with famished fever.

When there's just one thing left, there's no choice but to hang onto that one thing with all the strength they possess. The only thing left for them is togetherness, and their hands and lips also seem to know that as their kiss grows deep and forlorn, and their embrace melts into erratic breaths and heated touching.

Wilson thinks he's lost his mind as he hears his own hysterical laughter and crying while yanking the clothes off House's body, and he feels himself being exposed with similar ravenous, painful, broken desire. It's been a long time since he met such mutual hunger, such scorching skin against his own, he almost forgot what it felt like, but it's different now and oh so perfect, the dissimilarities of shapes, smell, taste add an intoxicating flavor to the discovery of the one he loves; and without words he offers himself and the remnants of his life to be taken right there, on the floor of the kitchen, on the pile of his own funeral clothes and House's jeans and jacket.

House accepts his offering without question, the touch of his body is tender and rough, so fantastic, so utterly wonderful, his soft sighs are so maddening that Wilson feels himself going crazy as he melts into House's hands, letting all go for the first time in weeks, ever since he realized he'll be dead soon, or maybe the first time in his life; and he doesn’t care anymore whether he’s dead or not because with House he's unafraid, unashamed, to him he can reveal his true self, his bravery gives him strength.

House is there, whispering soothing, reassuring, passionate words in his ear, he's strong and warm and vital and willing to accompany him in this hell and make it bittersweet. Wilson is laughing as tears run down his face, he's holding onto House while eating his lips and his jaw and his cheeks, he rakes his fingers through his hair, slithers his palms on his stubble as his hips are moving in House's lap in sensual, rhythmical undulates, and he's throwing his head back with eyes closed, letting the air flow through his lungs and his voice resonate through his throat as he's sobbing _oh you're alive, thank god you're alive, oh you're here, oh god, Greg,_ and he's choking _missed you'_ s and _thank you'_ s and _love you'_ s, confessions rolling off his tongue like the drops of sweat on his back, in the shadow of demise there’s no need to bite back those words anymore.

House’s hands are gliding on his flaming skin, making him gasp and groan uncontrollably, and he’s being bathed with panting, damp kisses on his chest and collarbones, licking and sucking on his flesh, and an arm is tight around his waist and salty flavor is spreading on his tongue and House's voice is murmuring in his ear, _it's okay, you're alive too, my love, I'm here for you, I’ve always wanted you, I've always loved you,_ and Wilson feels his mind and soul being enveloped in House's words, he feels his whole body burning with the rushing blood in his veins, feels his muscles tensing and relaxing, his heart pounding beneath his ribs, his senses being electrified with pure existence.

House's vigor is surrounding and filling him, and he shamelessly feasts on it, the physical pleasure is almost muted by the agony and rapture of this heartache, ripping through his chest, making him bleed, and suddenly his whole being is torn asunder and pieced back together as he cries out _I'm alive, oh god I'm alive,_ and House kisses him desperate and hard, so hard it bruises his lips, and Wilson tears his mouth away to gasp for air as House is convulsing in his arms and whispers _Jimmy, my sweet Jimmy,_ and they're clutching at each other, savoring the shreds of life left for them until nothing remains but twined fingers, sweat and warm breathing in timeless ignorance.

 

  

They depart at dawn, and House leaves his life behind without giving any further thoughts, not looking back once, and Wilson is leaving everybody without a word, because there’s only one who matters.

He doesn’t ask House to endure the same he did.

Time is up, the tides have quieted down, and he’s not afraid anymore. Life goes on, even with the two of them stepping out of it.

He's got everything he needs right there with him.


End file.
